


For Tomorrow

by astolat



Series: POI works [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 11:14:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/pseuds/astolat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold said, softly, without looking at him, "I told you once we'd most likely end up dead." (post 2x10)</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> with many thanks to lim <3
> 
> no spoilers, only speculation

Reese sat on the end of his bed, looking out of the huge windows at the glitter of the city lights, the wide-open space of the streets outside. He'd pulled back all the curtains, turned off the lights, except a few low lamps throwing circles of light on the floor. The ceiling of the loft disappeared overhead. It was almost like sitting out in the open air, like being one with the city. It felt good after the narrow confines of the astringent cell and the hot glaring lights beating on his head in the interrogation rooms. 

The knock startled him out of his half-reverie. He looked at the door: it swung open, and Finch came in, arms full of several large paper bags. "Mr. Reese," he said. "I hope I'm not intruding." 

Reese got up and helped him carry in the food. 

The spread was impressive, even by Harold's standards: foie gras, shrimp, caviar, oysters, fresh bread and figs, three bottles of wine, six kinds of cheese, and a hot pack with two medium-rare ribeye steaks and all the fixings. There was very little conversation for the next hour. Reese fell back finally in his chair, defeated, and tipped his glass to Harold in a slightly wobbly salute. "I consider myself welcomed home in style, if that was the idea." 

"Mm," Harold said. He was leaning on his elbows, cupping his own glass between his hands. "To some extent, yes." 

"And the rest of the extent?" Reese said. "A number came up for a line cook at Peter Luger?"

"No, the Machine's been quiet," Harold said. "That's not what I meant." 

He was silent. Reese didn't push, just put his feet up on another chair and relaxed, let the glow of the wine and the wonderful food radiate out of his belly and through his whole body, soaked in it. Harold didn't waver and he wasn't clumsy. If he hadn't meant to explain, he wouldn't have said anything at all. It would come, and he could wait. 

At last Harold said, softly, without looking at him, "I told you once we'd most likely end up dead."

Reese looked at him. "Yes, you did," he said calmly. It hadn't changed his mind then; it certainly wouldn't change his mind now. Some things were worth dying for. Not many, as he'd learned to his long regret, but that only made this one all the more important to hold on to, whatever the cost. 

"Yes," Harold said. "However, I'm finding myself forced to re-evaluate the amount of time we have left." His voice was dry, clinical. "My expectations were based on flawed data. Before I found you, before we began this partnership, the odds of exposure and the level of interest were —significantly lower." 

"Are you saying you want to stop?" Reese said, sharply, trying not to let panic bubble up out of him. Of course Harold could pull the plug on this, on _them._ If _Harold_ had changed his mind—

"Oh, no," Harold said. "No, Mr. Reese, we're far beyond that." 

"Then—" Reese stopped, shut down the panic. He looked at the spread and got it; his mouth quirked. "Eat, drink, and be merry?" 

Harold flicked his eyebrows. "Would you enjoy a Lamborghini?" he asked. 

"Make it a Bugatti Veyron," Reese said. "I wouldn't mind having more horsepower than anything else on the road." 

"Somewhat conspicuous, but I can arrange garage space." Harold leaned over and snagged Reese's laptop with two fingers and dragged it towards him; the keys clicked and murmured under his fingers. He pushed it back after fifteen minutes. "It will probably take a month for delivery." 

John laughed softly; it was like having a fairy grant you wishes. "How about a jet, while you're at it?" 

"I already have one," Harold said. Of course he did. "Although it's true I should arrange for you to have access." 

John watched him affectionately while he went back to typing. He drank the rest of his wine, let his head tip back against the chair back. He didn't think about dying very much. But Harold was right: it was close. John could feel it in his gut, as much as Harold could calculate it on his computers. They'd had a lot of lucky breaks already; soon the dice would fall the other way. 

He poured another glass. He was all right with that. Dying to save an innocent life. Dying to save Harold, maybe. He looked across the table, windows and glowing terminal text reflected in Harold's glasses. He'd be at peace with that. He'd be more than at peace with that. 

Harold didn't look up, but his mouth compressed. "I hope, Mr. Reese, that you don't imagine I would find the outcome you're quite obviously contemplating at all satisfactory." 

"No," John said. "I know you wouldn't. But in case it does happen that way, just so you know, I would." 

Harold's eyes flicked up to his; his hands stilled on the keyboard. "Understood," he said finally, and went back to typing. 

Eat, drink, and be merry. Reese rolled the wine on his tongue and thought about other things he'd like to have, to do. He could use some good exercise equipment here in the loft, so he wouldn't have to work out in a public gym. Maybe a trainer, a regular massage. He put down the glass and stood up and went around the table. 

Finch was working on something else by now, some fragment of code. He hesitated and turned his head slightly when Reese came up behind him. "Harold," Reese said softly, and let his hand drop onto Harold's shoulder, thumb sliding beneath the loosened collar, stroking along the skin. 

"I—don't—" Harold said, for once at a loss for words, stammering. He stopped and licked his lips. 

"Come to bed," John said. He felt heady and reckless and more eager with every moment. 

Harold braced his hands on either side of the laptop and breathed hard, in and out. Then he pushed the chair back and stood up, and awkwardly turned around to look at him. John looked back steadily, and leaned in to kiss him. 

Harold closed his eyes before their lips touched. He didn't angle his head, didn't meet John halfway. His mouth was soft and warm, his lips parted a little. John liked the taste of him: bittersweet with red wine, his breaths coming quick to meet John's. John cupped his head with both hands and kissed him again and harder, fitting them together, licking softly at the inner heat of his mouth. 

John tugged Harold's tie the rest of the way loose, discarded it with his own. Jacket, waistcoat, belt, pants. Harold let John valet him until he was nearly naked, just the shirt and socks and briefs. He still hadn't done anything, but his cock was rising hard and visible. John slid to his knees abruptly, hot with wanting, and put his mouth over Harold's cock, breathing against it through the thin cotton. 

That wrung a noise from Harold, small and inarticulate. His hands settled on John's head lightly, like birds that might have lifted away at any moment. John gripped Harold's ass and sucked him through the cotton again. He was hard in his own pants. It had been so long. He'd learned to do without, but oh, he wanted it. His whole body was waking up, realizing yes, now, here, right now. He shuddered all over and rested his forehead against Harold's stomach, breathing hard. 

Harold's hands settled down, gentle on his head. His fingers stroked lightly through John's hair. John could tell from the sound of his breathing that he hadn't bent his head, was looking straight ahead, out the windows. After a moment he said quietly, "Take them off." 

John groaned softly and hooked his fingers into Harold's waistband and pulled the briefs down. He nuzzled at Harold's cock and opened his mouth for it, let the head slide in over his tongue. He hadn't done this before, but it was easy enough. He didn't try to take much in, just sucked and licked what he could. Harold was gasping, and his grip had gotten tighter. 

"I think," Harold said, and his voice was wobbly and endlessly sweet, "I think perhaps we'd better move to the bed now." 

John let his cock slip out of his mouth. "Yeah," he said, roughly. 

He shucked his clothes by the side of the bed. Harold took off his shirt and socks and climbed stiffly under the covers and watched him, half warily; he hadn't taken off his glasses. "I must confess," he said abruptly, "I feel rather at a disadvantage." 

John tossed his pants over the back of a chair and slid his briefs down. "Why?" 

"This wasn't in your background," Harold said. 

"What _was_?" John said, half-smiling: of course Harold would resent a surprise. 

"Nothing conclusive but Jessica," Harold said. "A handful of other unconfirmed encounters with women, possibilities only." 

John shrugged. "That's what they were," he said. "Possibilities." 

"I see," Harold said after a moment, like he really did. His cheeks had pinked. He licked his lips briefly, his eyes following John as he climbed into the bed. 

Sex wouldn't have been hard to get. Trusting someone enough to lie down with them, that was hard. He'd spent a lot of time learning how not to trust. How not to care. John touched Harold's cheek, bent to him again, kissing the corner of his mouth. The things Harold had undone in him, the chains he'd unlocked. 

Harold's breath was coming quicker. He didn't speak, but he lay back against the pillows, on his side, and reached up to draw John's head down to him. John lay down next to him, easing his body in. They fit easily together; he knew how Harold moved instinctively by now, the limitations to be worked around. His cock bumped against Harold's; their thighs pressed close. They kept kissing and kissing. John kissed Harold's neck, his shoulder, back to his mouth, luxuriated in the heat of another body so close. He felt drunkenly wonderful, happy. 

He put his hand on Harold's cock, slid his thumb over the head, back and forth. Harold's eyes closed and he drew in a short hissing breath. "I can stop," John said softly, grinning. 

"No," Harold said, "No, by all means continue." John nosed at his chin, stroked him again. 

"I half expect you to call me Mr. Reese."

"Would you enjoy it?" Harold said, opening his eyes heavy-lidded. The question was about more than a name: about Harold's voice, directing. John felt a sweet hot shiver along his back. 

"I might," he said. 

"We'll have to try that sometime," Harold said, saying a dozen other things at the same time, and John kissed him, glad. 

Harold didn't speak the rest of the time. His breathing told John that it was good, that he was getting close; then it caught sharply. John stroked him on through climax, liking the way his hand got wet, the fine tremors through Harold's body. He relaxed heavily. "Thank you," he said, after a moment, breathily. 

"You're welcome," John said, kissing him. He slid his wet hand over his own cock, stroked himself. 

"Are you—oh," Harold said. " _Oh._ " His voice trembled. He shut his eyes again. "Yes. Keep doing that." 

"Yeah?" John said, his voice tight and straining. God, he was so close. 

" _Yes_ ," Harold said. He had put a hand on John's hip and was gripping tight, so he could feel John jerking himself off. The touch felt as hot as a brand. John shut his eyes and crested, spilling all over his hand. 

They both lay panting together, afterwards. John got up after a little while, got a washcloth, cleaned them up. The bed was a king-size; there was enough room to roll over and avoid the wet spot, if they cuddled close. John curled against Harold's back and tucked himself in, his nose at the base of Harold's neck. He spread his hand out under the pillow, let his fingers drift over the handgun resting up against the headboard, pulled them back in. He felt utterly at peace. 

Harold put his arm over John's other arm, draped over his waist. He laced their fingers. "That was remarkable," he said eventually, speaking into the dark. 

"Harold," John said softly, his breath skating over Harold's shoulder. "You know I'm yours." 

"Yes," Harold said. "I do know. However, there's something to experiencing that knowledge in a more—visceral way." 

He fell silent; he relaxed minutely more, breath coming deeper as he eased into the stillness of sleep. John breathed with him, let sleep roll heavily up over him. They'd turned off the lights, but the city glitter still shone in. He watched the traffic gliding away down the avenue, a million lives flowing by with the Machine panning them for the numbers like flakes of gold. In the morning, there might be a new one. 

= End =


End file.
